


Between My Slumber and My Waking

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sleepy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is very sleepy and John is very determined that he will sleep in an actual bed for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between My Slumber and My Waking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Godtiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/gifts).



> For Skip, who loves sleepy!Sherlock as much as I do.
> 
> Warning: Contain one small mention of violence against a child - nothing graphic, it's only a sentence or two, but a heads up all the same.
> 
> The title is from a poem by Natasha Trethewey called 'Myth'

It was honestly ridiculous how often this happened.

Sherlock Holmes was a _genius_. He could tell your life story by the way you held a pen, and spot an adulter by their briefcase. He was the smartest man John had ever met and a bloody idiot. It was the only explanation for why he couldn't understand the simple concept that sleep was not optional.

: : :

They'd been on a case for nearly a week. It was nasty, the creep had been attacking children to blackmail their parents, and everyone was glad to see the end of it and the man behind bars. It had been a particularly long week for Sherlock. For a self-proclaimed sociopath John knew that cases involving children upset him quite a bit. He'd focus on finding the person responsible with a drive that should probably have been worrisome but which everyone was too thankful for to try and deter.

This had been no different. By the time Lestrade called them three children had been attacked, one of whom was in the hospital with a broken leg that would require surgery. Sherlock had taken off at once, John following him without a second thought. That had been Thursday morning. It was now Wednesday night and in the past week Sherlock had eaten three pieces of toast, gone through two  _boxes_ of nicotine patches, and had exactly 45 minutes of sleep.  _Everything else is transport_ as he'd once told John.

Which explained why now, in a cab on their way back to Baker Street after agreeing to come by the Yard for their statements tomorrow, Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open. He was trying to explain some finer point of the case – something about the man's toothbrush that John couldn't make heads or tails of – and mostly just succeeding in trailing off in the middle of sentences, his eyes drifting closed. It took all of John's military training to keep a straight face.

John didn't mind this part. He didn't mind traveling through London at all hours of the day with a Sherlock who was ready to drop from exhaustion and a cabbie who kept giving them sly grins. Sometimes Sherlock actually fell asleep on their way home and that was okay too. He'd be talking one second and the next his head would be pillowed on John's shoulder, oblivious to the world around him. John would roll his eyes affectionately and wrap and arm around his flatmate's shoulders and, if he was feeling particularly daring that day, drop a kiss on the top of Sherlock's messy hair.

It was the next part John hated.

He had lived with Sherlock for nearly two years now. John was used to all of the weird, sometimes annoying, bits of living with him; the violin music at all hours of the night, never knowing if there were body parts in the fridge, the way Sherlock twisted his mouth when he was afraid he'd done something wrong but didn't want to admit to it; lesser things as well, like his hatred of mushrooms and the way he took his tea – four sugars and no milk, John had no idea how he could stand it.

But by far the biggest, and probably most annoying, thing John had learned about Sherlock was that he was simply an overgrown child. He pouted and fussed and was completely inappropriate when he felt he was being ignored and required attention. Sherlock was picky about the clothes he would wear and the places he would go and the food he would eat and he needed a reason for absolutely everything. And he was impossible to put to bed.

The man never slept enough to begin with. Even when he got sick – there'd been a bad flu going around London in early spring – he ignored his body's demands for rest and and bounced around the flat with his usual limitless supply of energy. Transport required up keep however. Inevitably, usually after a few days but sometimes longer depending on the case, his body would win out and he'd be asleep. And once Sherlock was asleep, waking him was as dangerous as poking a sleeping bear. And if anyone should know, it was John. He would never forget his first failed attempt, he'd gotten himself a black eye – apparently John wasn't the only one in the flat who reacted poorly when startled awake – for trying.

John would be more than content to let him sleep if he could just fall asleep  _in his bed_ .

But no. Sherlock fell asleep in the shower, or on the sitting room floor, or in Angelo's, or, most often, the back of a cab. That left it up to John to get him back to 221b and into his bed.

“We're home, Sherlock.” John said softly as they pulled onto Baker Street. Sherlock turned his head towards John but made no other sign that was was willing to move.”C'mon, I know you're tired but we've got to get out of the cab.” Sherlock made a  _hmmm_ sound that could have signaled agreement, disagreement, or that he was moving to Italy to become a bee keeper. “Budge along” He said paying the cabbie. Apparently even mostly asleep Sherlock felt that didn't require a response.

“Oh, fine.” John sighed grabbing Sherlock's hand and gently pulling him out of the cab. “I cannot believe we are flatmates sometimes.” He muttered under his breath as Sherlock stood up.

“It is rather fortunate for you,” Sherlock agreed in a tired voice rubbing at his eyes like a child with the hand John was not holding.

“Extremely.” John said sarcastically. Sherlock just pouted. “Right, in we go.” He fished his keys out of his pocket – made difficult because they were in his left pocket and that was the hand he was holding onto Sherlock with – and got them both inside. Sherlock blinked in the sudden light and then flat out stopped walking at the staircase.

“I'll sleep on the stairs.” He announced flopping himself down and pulling John with him.

“No, you will not.” John said firmly standing back up, their joined hands stretched between them. 

“I am home, safe inside of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson has already gone to bed for the night so I won't be in her way, the front door is locked and I am  _tired_ .” Sherlock leaned his head against the wall. “There's no reason one must sleep in a bed to get enough rest, John, and I am very comfortable right here.” He closed his eyes and John gave his arm a sharp pull. He waited until Sherlock looked at him.

“You may be comfortable now, but you won't in the morning. There's a reason people sleep in beds, Sherlock. I know you're tired, that's what happens when you get less than an hour of sleep in a week. Your body is  _exhausted_ so listen to it for once.” The problem with arguing with a sleepy genius is that sleepy or not, they are still a genius. The best route, John had learned, was not to let them talk too much. Sherlock could probably talk the devil out of his pitchfork if he felt like it and make him cry while he was at it. John was not going to let himself get waylaid.

“Stop thinking so loudly.” Sherlock complained, closing his eyes.

“As soon as you get your arse up.” John said sternly. “You are going to come upstairs with me, put on your pajamas, and sleep in a proper bed tonight. You haven't slept in days, you're getting some real rest tonight. In a bed. Not on the couch, not on the floor, and certainly not on the steps. Up!” He said firmly giving Sherlock's arm another tug. Sherlock glared but it was rather ruined when he yawned making him look for all the world like an overly tired child, all mussed hair and sleep-heavy eyelids. John rolled his eyes, tugged again, and soon they were both standing.

The stairs proved to be a bit of a problem when it became obvious that Sherlock had no desire to move up them of his own accord. John had to take a step, stop, tug Sherlock along, and then repeat the entire process. When they reached the door of 221b John had never been so grateful that Sherlock had the downstairs bedroom.

Sherlock immediately made a beeline for the couch and was stopped short by John's grip on his hand. “A bed, Sherlock. I said you were going to sleep in a bed.” Sherlock merely rubbed at his eyes again. John sighed. He had been through a war. John had saved lives and taken lives and done impossible things with limited supplies. He could get Sherlock to bed.

They made their way to the bedroom slowly, Sherlock was nearly asleep on his feet and stumbling like a drunk, but they finally got there. “Do not lie down.” John reminded him, letting go of his flatmates hand and looking for pajamas. He found them draped over a chair that seemed to be serving as a holding space for several books about gardening of all things. 

“They were for a case from about a month before we met.” Sherlock muttered, answering John's unasked question.

When he turned around Sherlock had taken his jacket off and was fumbling at his buttons sleepily. John set the pajamas on the bed next to Sherlock and then slid down to pull off his flatemate's shoes and socks. He helped Sherlock with the rest of his shirt buttons – he had apparently forgotten his cuffs had buttons as well – and watched Sherlock pull at his belt. “Here.” John said after a moment of pure amusement where it seemed Sherlock had forgotten how belts worked. “I rather think you can manage your trousers on your own though.”

“People will talk.” Sherlock mumbled with a sleepy smile.

“They do little else.” John echoed back with a grin. “Right. Trousers off, pajama bottoms on, you're nearly done, Sherlock.” He turned away, ostensibly because he was putting Sherlock's clothes in the hamper, but really because yes, his flatmate was rather attractive, and John didn't want to deal with his feelings about that right at this moment. Especially because Sherlock trusted no one else to do this for him and ogling him now would have felt like a betrayal of that trust to John's mind.

When he turned back Sherlock was pulling on a t-shirt. Or trying to. The sleeves seemed to be giving him a bit of trouble. “I don't know how you managed living on your own.” John said affectionately, pulling the shirt into place.

“Cocaine and an extremely annoying, interfering, older brother.” Sherlock muttered crawling under the covers. John rolled his eyes, flicked off the bedside light, and turned to leave. He was stopped short by a hand on his wrist.

“Don't.” Sherlock said, eyes closed and half asleep already. “Stay. If you'd like.”

“Alright.” John said with a smile Sherlock couldn't see. He toed off his shoes and pulled his jumper and trousers off leaving him in his undershirt and boxers. John got into bed – it was a surprisingly large, comfortable bed considering that it was rarely slept in – and felt Sherlock grab his wrist again. Well past exhausted himself at this point, John kissed Sherlock's hair softly and fell asleep.

: : :

And, if when he woke up the next morning and Sherlock's long skinny limbs were wrapped around him like a death grip and a hug all at once, maybe having to get Sherlock to bed wasn't something he minded so much after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Being incredibly sick and having trouble walking means that I have all of the time to write all of the plot bunnies! Thanks for reading and please feel free to leave a review.
> 
> Now with a [Chinese](http://tieba.baidu.com/p/2017853794?fr=itb_feed_jing) translation courtesy of Ingrid!


End file.
